


Claws

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Flirting, Guilt, Hostage Situations, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Power Dynamics, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 21:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14860679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: There is a little of her mother in young Myrcella too, a hint of the lion's claw. Catelyn is not sure how to feel about that.





	Claws

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the asoiaf rarepairs prompt: "Catelyn/Myrcella, kitten." Aka. my quest to pair Cat with everyone ever continues. The MILF in the North!

The Lannister girl – still a Baratheon in name, as one of the terms of this strange truce – is sweet, gentle, courteous to all she meets, despite knowing they're all her enemies. With her golden locks tumbling down along her shoulders, she's the very image of a princess. It is a tragedy she was not born some other way, to some other people. Still, Catelyn, despite herself, has grown fond of the girl, and would not dream of letting any harm befall her.

(Although, looking down at the scar on her hand that has not faded after near ten years now, she knows what may happen should war break back out.)

Still, there is a little of her mother in young Myrcella too, a hint of the lion's claw. Catelyn is not sure how to feel about that.

She visits the girl in her chambers, observes her stitching a tapestry quietly. “Your Grace,” she says, still a little resentful of the title – the girl is a bastard, her husband lost his life trying to prove that, and then they all gave up in exchange for some peace – and Myrcella looks up, seemingly surprised by the intrusion.

“Lady Catelyn,” she says with her most charming smile, the one that Catelyn's sure has half the boys in this castle dreaming of absconding with the foreign princess. She keeps a very careful eye on the girl just in case. “Hello, I wasn't expecting you. What brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing in particular,” says Catelyn, helping herself into a seat. Myrcella raises an eyebrow at her, clearly expecting some sort of explanation, and Catelyn finds herself surprisingly embarrassed. “In all honestly, I was just a little bored,” she says, doing her best not to flush.

Myrcella laughs at that. “Fair enough,” she says, and puts her tapestry aside. “I myself was a little lonely.” A pause, and Catelyn feels sympathy. It cannot be easy for the girl, living in a castle where everyone here resents her existence, and all the pain it caused them. Catelyn resents it too. But she likes the girl regardless. “I enjoy your company, my lady.”

That does not help alleviate her embarrassment. “That may say more of the dearth on company on offer than anything,” she mutters, half-wishing she had a glass of wine to hide behind. She remembers when she first came north, she was used to having ladies in waiting to share her days with, and was surprised to learn her new home did not bother with such trivialities. It took her awhile to adjust.

“You speak too lowly of yourself,” Myrcella tells her, and Catelyn really does blush then, and casts her eyes over Myrcella's tapestry, wanting desperately to change the subject. The design is beautiful, elaborate, seven sigils woven in and out. Catelyn bites her lip when she realises. It looks like a prayer for peace.

They have a peace, sort of; an uneasy truce of one kingdom split into three: the dragon queen in the south, the lion king in the west, and the wolf king in the north. It has been secured only with hostages, all traded about like dancers at a wedding – Catelyn wonders what Sansa must be sewing now, down in Dorne. Myrcella assures her that her Dornish hosts were never anything but kind to her, that it is a beautiful land and Sansa will be very happy there, and Catelyn wants to believe her. But she is still a mother, and she knows perfectly well how the Lannisters treated her daughter. She worries.

The colours too catch her notice: Lannister ruby and Stark silver, woven together until they shimmer. “Red and silver,” she says before she thinks better of it. “Some would think you are trying to give us ideas, your grace.”

Myrcella pauses. The girl smiles at her mysteriously, and Catelyn flushes again, cursing herself for saying such a thing. She should not need to be embarrassed; the prospect of securing the peace with a marriage has been raised before. Myrcella is a beautiful of girl of marrying age; she would be a woman wed already, most likely, had the Dornish not changed their allegiance so spectacularly. She and Bran are of about the right age for each other, and Myrcella has shown no reticence about the prospect of wedding a cripple. But the idea has never gone beyond idle thought. Catelyn suspects that is Robb's doing: in his heart, he does not want the peace to last. He still wants his vengeance.

It's not as if she doesn't empathise.

“Perhaps I do,” the girl says softly, her eyes fixed on Catelyn. She stares at Catelyn's hair, auburn going grey with age, and Catelyn feels her pulse race.

Myrcella is such a beautiful girl, gold and gorgeous as they say her mother was in her youth, but with a goodness in her that Cersei Lannister never had. Catelyn knows she should not think such things. Perhaps she has just been alone too long, creeping into her winter years still the widow, still pining for the husband she lost. There have been proposals of remarriage, but she has not been able to make herself agree to any of them. Maybe it's foolish, but no man could replace Ned for her, she knows that.

But this girl, this beautiful girl, barely more than a child, she is something new entirely.

Catelyn knows better than to think the princess might actually desire her. Were she still six and ten, maybe, but she crept past her fortieth year long ago and knows her most beautiful days are behind her. Most likely, the girl wants safety; either to win Catelyn's heart or to get hold of a fatal secret, to have a way that she cannot be disposed of should the realm descend back into hell.

It's tragic, really. Catelyn feels sorry for her. But gods, that does not stop her wanting it.

Sinful and strange, she longs for it, to take the golden princess to her bed and lay a claim on her. It's almost like she's being taunted, the girl offered up to them as a consolation for all the Lannisters put them through, but Catelyn cannot bring herself to act on it. She remembers seeing Cersei Lannister weep as she embraced her only girl, and while Catelyn would tear that woman's eyes out if she ever got close enough, she cannot bring herself to do that to another mother.

“I should go,” she says quickly, standing up, making herself the lady of the castle again. What choice does she have. “I have duties to attend to. I'll see you this evening, your grace.”

Myrcella nods. “It was nice to speak with you,” she says, and when she smiles, she smiles like she knows something. That she's wearing down Catelyn's walls.

When Catelyn leaves, she is dreaming of pushing that girl down onto a wolf's furs, of tearing her gown off, of pulling her golden locks and kissing and biting and bruising every inch of unclaimed skin she can, of making the girl scream in bliss beneath her. _Cersei Lannister, what would do you say to that?_

But oh, what a terrible thing to think.

 


End file.
